


colorblind

by theevilcleavage



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 00:33:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10525182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theevilcleavage/pseuds/theevilcleavage
Summary: Irene is the first of Jamie's masks. Moriarty will be the last.





	

The role of Irene is crafted in grade school, right around the time that Jamie discovers her otherness, begins to pinpoint the whims and inclinations that make her different from the other children. She senses the intellectual gap, the disconnect between her own thoughts and those of her peers, and eventually she realizes that everyone around her seems to have access to a full, complex spectrum of human emotion that Jamie herself has been denied.

It is an isolating experience, coming into the world wrong, and Jamie expresses her frustration through her art. She guides her brushes through an intricate blending of colors that are bolder and more defined than anything she’s ever expressed off the page. She understands the language of color, can communicate the deepest of sorrows and the brightest of joys with devastating accuracy, even if she can’t quite grasp them for herself.

She spends most of her classes at school drawing rough sketches on scraps of white paper, bringing figments and figures to life with her pen, hoping it will sustain her.

The teachers call her ‘gifted’. Jamie has always hated the word, finds it too reductive, too small and simple to capture the vastness of her mind. In simple terms, she experiences a heightened reality, absorbs the finest details in every situation, every image, and has trouble blocking out the flow of information to her brain. To call her gifted is to undermine the experience, to romanticize it for her peers and teachers, define herself by their terms.

Jamie refuses to force herself into their small, simple world. She will not become less than she is, won’t submit or give up pieces of herself just to make strangers more comfortable. Not when she doesn’t have a debilitating set of emotions holding her back. Not when she can rule over them like a god. 

And that is when a new persona – Irene Adler – is born. She manifests, in everything but name, from the time Jamie is ten years old. It is a slow, gradual process, as Jamie tries to function as Irene in every public aspect of her life, as a person who fits in easily with the other boys and girls and never finds herself on the receiving end of odd, polarizing looks. 

It’s a careful balancing act, one that Jamie experiments with for many years. She must be bright, but never condescending; inquisitive, but not challenging; shrewd, but pleasant; charming, yet genuine. The character she creates becomes an embodiment of these qualities, becomes The Woman, the first of Jamie’s masks. 

Moriarty will be the last.  


* * * * *

The child is a reckless mistake, nothing more. Just a drunken night of unprotected sex that leaves behind a mild obstacle, one that Jamie could easily circumvent. And yet, even as she considers the simplest option, she can’t bring herself to terminate the pregnancy.

She carries the girl to term, and considers it an experiment. She’ll become a mother, just to see, just to entertain the possibility that a child might cut through the gray, allow her to access the full spectrum of color, so that she can feel fuller, somehow. More fulfilled.

But the child is born, and Jamie feels nothing.

So she sends the girl away, sends her to live with a newly married couple in America, and she sinks back into the shadows.  


* * * * *

Sherlock doesn’t see through her act, and in the beginning Jamie finds that disappointing.

But once she has inserted herself more fully into his life, she starts to learn all sorts of things about him, starts to let her own brilliance seep through to mingle with his, and finds herself feeling freer and more challenged than she has in years. And for a short while, she is grateful that he doesn’t suspect her.

For a time Jamie’s work even starts to seem less tedious, and the loneliness doesn’t weigh so heavily on her shoulders. But before long Sherlock falls in love with Irene, starts tracing the freckles and beauty marks on her back like tiny constellations, and Jamie realizes that maybe she’s sucked up all she can from their dalliance. 

Because while all of the colors of the world remain on her canvases, they are just out of reach in every kiss and sigh and embrace. Everything is still muted, just as it’s always been, despite the brilliant man she seems almost destined to love. 

So she leaves. She leaves Sherlock for the dark comfort of Moriarty, a much more fitting role, and watches him go mad trying to find her.  


* * * * *

Jamie experiences her first rush of color in a small, unremarkable hospital room.

She has just been bested, has lost a game that she herself invented, and it’s awful and exhilarating in an entirely singular way. Joan Watson is standing in the doorway, infuriatingly calm and quietly victorious, and in that moment Jamie seethes red, crimson, scarlet in a rare burst of outrage. 

For the first time, the colors she’s always mixed and mingled manifest inside of her. She feels frustration in deep, desperate plum and purple, confusion in pale, dirty yellow, and it isn’t until she’s sitting in a rather dull, minimalist cell that she even realizes what’s happened.  


* * * * *

Jamie spends the better part of a year confined to one room, with only Agent Mattoo and an easel to keep her company.

No more glass paint jars – not since she slit her wrists and nearly strangled Mattoo to death – but she’s still allowed some basic supplies. Her portrait of Joan Watson remains, staring back at her from the far side of the room.

She paints Joan many more times, paints the woman who gave her the gift of color, and tries to capture every line, every glimmer, every shred of life in her.

She fails, of course. But as always, it is the journey, the challenge, that Jamie most enjoys.  


* * * * *

Once her patience with her confinement has run out, Jamie starts leaking a few select names to the right people, and suddenly Moriarty is a free woman again.

She seeks Joan out the first chance she gets, in a rare moment when Watson is free from Sherlock’s overbearing supervision. And perhaps it is a mistake to wander in without an angle, without a full-fledged plan, but Jamie is so eager to get tangled up with this woman, to pick at her brain and puzzle her out, that it hardly matters whether she’s thought it through.

She follows Joan to a coffee shop by the Brownstone, orders a mug of English tea and sits down at a small wooden table. It doesn’t take long for Joan to notice her, and she seems quite surprised to see her out of police custody. 

“Moriarty?” Joan approaches her table and reaches instinctively for her phone. Jamie doesn’t stop her; after all, she’s a free woman now. The police can’t touch her.

“Hello, Watson.”

Joan’s thumb hovers over the “9” on her phone, but she doesn’t press it. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Jamie hides her smile behind her mug and takes a long sip from it. Joan’s hostility is expected, but wholly unnecessary, and she tells her so.

“You needn’t worry,” Jamie says, motioning for Joan to take a seat. “I’m not here to harm you.” 

Joan squints at her for a second, like she’s trying to decide whether or not she should engage with a convicted murderer. In the end, curiosity wins out against conscience, and Joan pulls out a chair and sits down across from her.

“Then why are you here?” she asks.

Jamie tilts her head to the side just slightly.

“Isn’t it obvious, Joan? I’m here for you.” 

“Why me?” 

Jamie opens her mouth, almost tries to verbalize the pull that she feels. But how can she describe a phenomenon that cannot be communicated with words? She resolves to paint Joan an answer one day.

“Because you’ve captured my interest,” she says instead. And then Jamie pivots, smooth and sharp, and fully Moriarty. “I can only imagine what you must think of me.”

Joan shakes her head. “You have no idea what I’m thinking.”

She’s right, of course, and Jamie sits back with a small, pleased smile, because finally they’ve found a good place to begin.

“Then why don’t you enlighten me?”

Joan scoffs, refusing to indulge her.

“You’re a criminal,” she says flatly. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

The words are clipped and final, but Joan isn’t leaving, isn’t reaching for her purse or walking out, so Jamie pushes further. 

“On the contrary, Joan,” she says. “It’s all that matters.”  


* * * * *

Jamie tries several times to entice Watson into partaking in another tête-a-tête, but Joan is even more resistant than Jamie had expected. So eventually, she must resort to bribery. It’s a move from Moriarty’s book, and the only surefire way to get Watson alone.

After Jamie dangles the bait, Joan agrees to meet her at an art gallery uptown. She arrives five minutes early, in a red dress that captures Jamie’s attention right away.

“Joan,” she says, the cheer in her voice only half-forced. “It’s good to see you. I’ll admit, I didn’t expect-”

“Stop it,” Joan says. “We’re not doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Small talk. I’m only here because you have information about my case. That’s all.” 

Jamie smiles at that, at the defiance in Joan’s eyes, the fire. It stirs something inside of her, something foreign, and the feeling isn’t entirely unpleasant. 

Perhaps Jamie would believe her aggressive disinterest, if Joan hadn’t gone to the trouble of applying her makeup so meticulously and doing up her hair.

“One walk around the gallery,” Jamie says. “That’s all I ask. And then I’ll tell you everything I know.” 

Joan hesitates (always overthinking, always considering every option before she jumps in), but ultimately she agrees. Because apparently Joan will do anything to save a life, to help the police, to do some good. 

Jamie smiles and offers up her arm.

“Shall we?”

Joan rolls her eyes, hard, ignoring the proferred arm as she starts leading the way through the exhibit.

“Let’s just get this over with, all right?”

* * * * *

Joan doesn’t warm to her, not even after an hour spent admiring the works of art lining the walls. Even after Jamie helps the NYPD with five more cases in the coming month, providing information that no officer would have access to, Joan remains unmoved.

Her resistance is frustrating, maddening, exciting. And a low hum of anticipation has settled inside of Jamie like a virus, swirling around in shades of orange and pink.  


* * * * *

Jamie meets Watson in Central Park for another exchange, and this time, Joan doesn’t ask for information right away. Nearly half an hour passes before either one of them mentions the case, and though Jamie is pleased, she is also wondering what has triggered the shift.

“Why do you keep agreeing to meet with me?” 

“I told you,” Joan says, wrapping her coat tighter around herself. “You have information about our cases. If I didn’t meet with you, it would take longer to solve them.”

“Yes, but why risk upsetting your partner?”

Joan sighs, very deliberately avoiding eye contact.

“Sherlock thinks you’re a monster. And I don’t know, maybe you are. But you’ve been helping us a lot lately,” she says. “Last month you saved a boy’s life. I guess I thought…”

Jamie stops walking and pulls Joan to a stop beside her. 

“I won’t suddenly grow a conscience, Watson.”

“No,” Joan says, nodding in agreement. “You won’t.”  


* * * * *

Joan kisses her on a Wednesday in the middle of Central Park.

In that moment, behind Jamie’s eyelids, there are bursts of gold, bright yellow, little puffs of silver. Energy thrums through her, frantic and unfamiliar, and the tips of Joan’s fingers brush her cheek and send sparks of electricity rippling across her skin.

The kiss only lasts a moment, but it sears itself into Jamie’s memory, warm and solid. 

Joan smiles afterwards, a little unsure, and Jamie wants to do more than kiss her.  


* * * * *

In late April, Joan’s mother ends up in the hospital.

Jamie is informed by one of her subordinates, one of the men she keeps stationed around the city to keep an eye on both Joan and Sherlock. Within minutes, she breezes into the hospital with an armful of flowers and locates Mary’s room.

“Jamie?” Joan is seated by her mother’s bedside, paler than usual. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve brought flowers,” Jamie says, in lieu of a proper response, and she leaves them resting by the bed. Joan says nothing, only turns back to her mother and squeezes her hand. There are a few long beats of silence.

“I’m not ready to lose her.”

Jamie pulls over a second chair and sits down. 

“We don’t always see eye to eye, but…” Joan bites her lip. 

“But you love her.”

Joan doesn’t respond, her eyes fixed on her mother’s face. After a moment, she turns to face Jamie.

“What was your mother like?” she asks, direct and curious and far more open than Moriarty would deem prudent. 

“I don’t remember,” Jamie says, and Joan’s lips twitch upward at the lie. She doesn’t demand the truth, though.

Jamie finds herself offering it up anyway.

“She was French, and she was a skilled pianist. She died when I was quite young.” 

Joan nods, her expression unreadable.

“I’m sorry you lost her.”

Jamie glances over at Mary, watches her chest rise and fall.

“Your mother will be all right,” she says. And even though it’s an empty promise, Joan leans against her and smiles.  


* * * * *

They spend one night together at one of Moriarty’s safehouses, and it’s transformative, in the best possible way.

The next morning, Jamie finds herself sitting in front of a canvas, itching to create. Joan walks out of the bedroom and finds her there, bent over, staring at a blank canvas. 

“What are you thinking of painting?” Joan asks, half-dressed and absolutely gorgeous in the early morning light. Jamie almost tells her so.

“I was going to paint you.”

Joan is quiet for a while, and soon Jamie regrets even broaching the topic. But then Joan moves over to the opposite side of the canvas and takes a seat on a spare stool, undoing the clasp that’s been holding back her hair. Black waves tumble down over her shoulders, and she is so striking that Jamie has to dig her nails into her palms to keep from reaching for her brush.

“Go ahead,” Joan says. 

Jamie hesitates, and for a moment their roles are reversed, and Jamie is the one pulling back. 

“I won’t do you justice. No artist could.”

“I trust you,” Joan says, and when Jamie throws her an incredulous look, she rolls her eyes. “Well, with this anyway.” 

Jamie reaches for a clean paintbrush, doing away with words for the time being. For now she’ll speak to Joan Watson in the language of color, paint her an answer to that question she asked months ago in a tiny café. 

_“Why me?”_

_“Why me?”_

_“Why me?”_

* * * * *

Joan Watson is the person who gifted her with color, and now she’s become something much more precious.

If simple companionship were enough, Jamie never would have discarded Sherlock. But Joan brings her something else entirely: a challenge, an enigma, a reason to be better.

But of course, that doesn’t mean that Jamie loves her. Love isn’t a part of this particular game.

(That’s the lie she tells herself.)


End file.
